


Silent like Snow

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of John Watson’s nightmares were loud, full of the sound of bombs and bullets, full of screaming – sometimes other people’s, sometimes his own. And some of his dreams were silent, like the falling of winter snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent like Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Still feeling exhausted and a bit low today, so here's another bit of Johnlock fluff, which starts in a nightmare and ends in snugglebunnies.

Some of John Watson’s nightmares were loud, full of the sound of bombs and bullets, full of screaming – sometimes other people’s, sometimes his own.

And some of his dreams were silent, like the falling of winter snow.

_The pine tree is garlanded in tinsel and glimmering balls of red and gold reflect dancing orange light and there is an angel at the top of the tree, luminous and beautiful, and there’s a carol playing, he knows it, though he can’t hear it, the words running silent across his mind’s eye, **Oh Little Town** , and he saw Bethlehem once, not at Christmas though and this is somewhere and somewhen else, the pine tree in the parlour, twinkling with fairy lights and firelight…_

_…and then it grows._

_It sprouts and pushes and looms and though the trunk swells thick and the limbs are crackling as they sprawl and reach, there is no sound. No sound as it pushes down the walls. No sound as the ceiling crumbles away, smoke and stone._

_No sound, and the tinsel spirals and is alive, sparks pinwheeling from the strands, and the baubles swell and crack and bloom, spilling gouts of silent flame and smoke and pieces of metal and pieces of people, the shiny fragments a mirror, too, of flame. This red eggshell shard here shows a flaming house and that golden curve shows figures tumbling, tumbling, limbs flying away, all silent silent silent as the ashes fall like sleet around him._

_And the angel that tops the pine, his arms spread wide, is black as death and he falls and falls and falls, a raven’s feather, an obsidian wing, it falls, he falls, soft as a sigh, like burnt snow, like snow and ash and cinders, falling soft as the end of everything on the blood red ground._

John’s eyes flew open in the darkness, the sound of his own harsh breathing heavy in his ears. He lay there, panting, shaking, eyes staring up into the dark until the light bleeding in from behind the curtain painted shapes, grey on grey on grey. The poster on the wall. The wardrobe, and the boxes on top of it. The chair in the corner, clothes draped over the back.

The shape beside him, a mountain in microcosm, peaks and valleys and folds.

And slowly, afraid to move, afraid to shatter the darkness and the mountain and the soft, soft sound of breathing beside him, John shifted his arm. Shifted his hand. Fingers. Stretched them out on the sheets, his skin feeling every thread beneath every line and whorl of hand and fingerprint. Not touching but sensing the body beside him. The warmth of the sleeping mountain. By his side and breathing deeply.

John lay there, breathing in, breathing out; breathing in London air, breathing out nightmare; breathing in the scent of shampoo and wool and a little of the brandy nightcap and all the indefinable scent-taste-heat of _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_ , and breathing out the memory of loss.

He closed his eyes and sighed, subtle, nearly silent.

The mountain moved. Slender fingers stretched over his. Slid between his. Curled between the spaces.

The mountain moved and turned and one long arm slid over John's waist, and curly dark hair tickled his cheek as sweet breath drifted over John's mouth and nose. “John.” Almost inaudible, but it settled in John’s skin and he breathed in the word, his name, something plain made beautiful in that slumberous voice.

Bow lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, and John turned to his head so that his lips and Sherlock’s met. A slight pressure, then harder, Sherlock shifting closer to him. Sherlock’s hand still covered John’s, awkward-trapped between them, and his arm was snug around John’s waist, and he kissed John’s mouth and then tucked his nose into the warmth of John’s throat.

“John.” Murmured soft, like snow, like safety, falling gently against John’s skin in the winter night.

John smiled and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s unbroken brow, against the pale unblemished skin.

“Back to sleep,” John said, low voice riding on the rhythm of sleep, hushed.

“N’ sl’py.” Sherlock wriggled closer, releasing John’s hand to free up space to press closer still. Then, “Sshh, sshhh,” Sherlock said, patting at John’s waist with one hand, kissing at skin near his lips, “Dream.”

“I know” said John, and there was humour in his voice now, and affection, and relief, and a gentle wellspring of joy. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like ‘Good’. He wrapped his arms closer around John; insinuated a leg over John’s thigh, and with a contented soft grunt fell once more silent.

John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s hair. He wrapped an arm across Sherlock’s back, the solidity of it, the weight and presence of it, welcome-heavy in contrast to the negligible yet momentous weight of ash and snow and darkness.

“I love you,” John whispered.

“Mmm,” murmured Sherlock, “’ve you.” His lips pushed, sloppy-sleepy, against John’s jaw and again he fell silent and into sleep.

John held Sherlock and breathed in the fact of him, the fact of London, of Baker Street, and listened to a world not silent, but full of quiet hope fulfilled.

 


End file.
